Canvas of Beauty
by LadyOfTruths
Summary: Looks can be a killler.
1. I

" Canvas of Beauty"

- LadyOfTruths "There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion"- F. Bacon 

Cáceres, Spain 

It has been said that the Spanish sun never sets upon a wasted day.  It is Monday afternoon, and the intense orange glare beats down over a city crafted over a plain of evolution. Narrow roads wind around Arabic Fortresses, palaces and the ancestral homes inhibited by the rich and well to do.  To the travelling eye, Cáceres is a sore city of defence, a victorious battler, and home to its many Spanish fighters. Plazas, churches, covenants, museums and archways line a series of medieval streets, decorated with an Arabic, modern gothic and renaissance Italy architectural depth. 

In the direction of the slowly shading east, where hilltop crescents presided over the land, a silver Audi Quattro pulled up in front of a large sandbrick mansion.  The automatic window, on the driver's side, glides down and an olive hand reaches out to type in a security code.  The heavy 'clink' of the gates sound and make way for the slick sedan. 

Annette Reiriz emerges from the car and heads toward the stained-glass doors at the front face of the house. Her raven hair slips over her shoulders, from refined cleanliness, and falls at the sides of her cheeks as she bends down to fetch a set of keys out of her small briefcase.  Upon rising, she smoothes down the newly made creases in her navy linen pantsuit and raises the key to the first of a set of locks. Before she could proceed her actions were halted by the sudden swing of the inward opening of the door. 

"Buenas tardes Sra Reiriz" A short bald man stood in the hallway and stepped aside to let her through.

"Buenas tardes Derrick." The woman politely strode past the hired help. "¿Mi hogar del esposo es? She inquired.

 "Sí. El sr. Reiriz está en su oficina." He informed her smiling.

Depending on the mood the occupants, several languages were spoken inside the house. Annette and both her husband Marco and their older butler Derrick spoke fluently in their native Spanish, as well as English, Italian and German. 

"Gracias Derrick. Eso será todo." She dismissed him and hurriedly made her way up the large flight of stairs. 

The Reiriz's were commonly known for their strong financial backbone. Their home was just another esteemed tangible goal achieved by the couple's success. Inside, the dark walls were lined with classic and antique masterpieces; some originals, others immaculate copies.  Their's was a relationship that developed and revelled in the fine streams of life; their belongings were a direct reflection of that. 

Annette opened one of the large, wood-panelled doors and entered her husband's office. Apparently he had come home to work.

"Here you are! Derrick told me you were up here" She approached the opposing side of his desk and leant against the polished timber. 

The elderly man looked up to his slightly younger wife. 

" Speaking English today, Annette?" His voice was thick with a Spanish accent. 

"Yes. Its working with Andres, he prefers English at work."  Her dark eyes drifted over the piles of her husband's paperwork.

Marco Reiriz had learnt, with age, that efficiency and organization were of top priority when dealing with corporate matters.  His job was tedious; bank managers can lead very boring lives if they don't take the time to tend to social callings. Marco was neither boring nor spontaneously exciting, he preferred to walk along a neutral line.  Unfortunately, his schedule clashed with Annette's interests, and more often than not, she found herself alone, dealing with life's hiccups in solitude. 

"You're home early. Are you unwell, Marco?" The sound of this name echoed through the large open room. She held onto the common habit of rolling her r's.    

Marrrrco 

The distance in the room seemed to further their slight hostility. 

"No. I just thought it might be nice to work the afternoon here." He offered a smile which was partially distorted by his dark bushy moustache. "How was your day?" He looked back down and continued his reading.

"Oh. Fine. I hadn't much to do really. Andres insisted that I have been overworking, so he told me to take it easy for a while. He's wonderful to work for."  A light smile played on her lips. Perhaps, if her husband had looked up, he may have seen her fight off a slight blush.

"So you've said." He refrained from taking his eyes off the paperwork. 

The room suddenly filled from skirting bord to ceiling fan with a mocking silence.

Nothing moved except the fan circulating the stale air and Marco's fountain pen, scratching madly over the forms.

"Though I suspect we'll have a lot to complete tomorrow. There's a new line arriving. Everything will have to be marked off on the inventory…" She stepped backwards into a faint shadow, waiting for his reaction. There was none. "So I may be home quite late" She let her words hang for a moment, before moving towards the exit.

" Dinner will be at eight. Perhaps you should take a shower and get changed hmm?" Marco watched his wife's shoulders slump upon her leave.

"Yes. I will." And then she shut the door, leaving the room as she'd found it upon entering.

The man of about sixty-five sighed to himself and fell back into the comfortable leather of his recliner.  In her absence he felt the restraints unlock from around his chest. He shut his eyes and took a moment to focus. He loved his wife, and he knew she returned it, but their problem was _like_, their fondness towards each other had worn thin.  Love was insubstantial without like. Alas, he would not bring it to attention this evening, not in her state. No. Such matters should wait until they have fully painted out their consequences.

Another sigh escaped him as he muttered to himself before returning to his work.

"Mi amor. Malgastado" 

~*~*~*~*~*~

He had been right. Of course he had, she would never deny him the flawlessness of his observation. After taking a long bath, Annette changed and stood in front of the large mirror standing behind her drawer. Her dark locks rung wet at her sides in long bundles. At fifty-seven, jet back was not a natural hair shade, but an upbringing brimmed with vanity taught her the sly tricks of delay the aging process. What was left of the afternoon sun splashed through the louvered windows. The light caught and held peacefully in her dark brown eyes. She examined her skin and brought a hand up to cup the side of her face.

Wrinkles.  The inevitable product of time etching away at the human form.

She sighed in disgust. Her mother had never aged as she had. She would be turning in her grave if she could see her now. Her dark eyes narrowed into sceptical slits.

_Look at the senile creature you have grown into! Each coming day is sentencing you to your deathbed._

Was that her, or her mother talking? She was unsure. She shook her head, sweeping her hair up in a small clip.  She had to look away from the mirror, it was her worst enemy at times; a reflection of the truth more painful than an army loaded with a thousand lies.

A smooth olive hand plunged into a small bucket of crème labelled _"Afternoon"_.  Annette looked back to the mirror and began furiously applying it everywhere; face, hands, shoulders, legs.

_There is enough beauty left in me. Marco may not see it, but Andres does. Andres does._

She looked up again, meeting her own gaze squarely. There was a passion burning this time, something furiously untamed waiting for a chance to escape.

_Andres does. Never mind about his pretty young wife._

She smiled at herself before making her way downstairs to the dining room. For now, it was a satisfactory end to a day which had not been completely wasted.

_A/N: Here I am trying my hand at a few original characters. Rest assured the favourites will make their appearance shortly.  This piece follows the book cannon (Yeek! Something a bit different for me) I hope you enjoy the ride; I'm thrilled to be your driver. Please review, your comments are greatly appreciated. _


	2. II

II

Andres Torres is rarely late for work. He is not a man of habit, but of strict punctuation which, for the most part, remains unyielding. This morning, however, minor distractions have collated and put him behind expected schedule.

Next to him on a large canopy bed lays another form, shifting comfortably in a state of postcoital bliss. A light smile brightens her features as she slowly rolls toward the centre of the mattress to meet her lover. 

"mmmphhff grrhh" She emits a rumble of incoherent words and runs her hand over the silky sheets.

"My dear, if you keep this up, I'll never get to work" He speaks.

The woman laughs and coyly lowers her gaze. His hands find her dishevelled hair and grasp at the sides of her neck. 

"I'm not seeing a problem there…" She leans toward his slim, reddened lips. He met her kiss, lightly nipping at her tongue. It was over before it finished starting.

The older man pushed the champagne-coloured sheets to one side, and gracefully rose from the bed. He was too quick for her to react, and smiled as her groan filled the large bedroom.

" Patience. Patience" Tanned flesh whipped past her and into the adjoining bathroom. She heard the shower run, and knew that play for the morning had come to its end. He was unmovable once his mind was set, much like herself.  She considered joining him in their accommodating tub, but decides against it. She too should consider gearing up for the day. Their dedication to work was the rare characteristic which gave away their Spaniardless ancestry, most of the locals were willing to bend the clock to meet their demanding social standards.

Ten minutes later, he emerges from the steamy tiled room, passing his wife on the way out with a playful slap on the backside.  

" You'll pay dearly for making me wait." Her demure grin vanished behind the door, yet she leaves it slightly ajar, enough for him to make out her naked form slither behind the crystal glass panel. 

  "I look forward to it" He sighs, wondering if she heard him. It didn't matter, she already knew that he matched her eagerness on the topic of their intimacy.

He dressed quickly, donning a pair of tailored navy pants and a pale salmon silk shirt and straightened his longish, darkly dyed hair.  Dark shades covered his intense maroon eyes, before he made his way downstairs. Time was lacking, and breakfasted would have to be skipped. Not that he minded, his hunger had been directed towards a different arena where strawberry croissants were menial competitors. 

Outside, the sleek black Mercedes waited for its owner. Its presence was somewhat diabolical and sophisticated- much like the driver himself.   Hannibal Lecter got in the luxury automobile, and pulled away from the large stone dwelling.  To most, the car reflected merely the sleek manner and power of Andres Torres, nothing more.  Antique curators were greatly lacking in sinister intent, it was the perfect position to be filled by infamous serial killer.

Work was a splendid experience for the most part. They had been living in Cáceres for nearly two years, after a hasty move from Madrid. The lifestyle of a criminal was not a stable one, but there was something about this city that held Dr. Hannibal Lecter transfixed, much like Florence still does in his memory palace.  The _Palazzo Vechio_ had been a dream, and _Torre De Los Sande_, or _The Tower of Silver_, was the next best thing.  The large, dominant building stood over the city, like the fortress it had once been to the Catholic Kings and monarchs.

Fifteen minutes from home, he pulled up in front of the grand scenery and parked next to a silver Quattro.  Annette Reiriz waits for her colleague at the entrance, shifting her weight impatiently from side to side. A flush brightened her olive cheeks as she saw him approach with a set of clanking keys.

"A good morning, Annette" His voice is smooth and cultured, with a slight rasp.

"Yes Andres, very good" She watched him work the lock from behind; he seemed unaware of her excessive scrutiny.

" I stayed up late last night to double check the inventory, to make it easier for us today" She straightened her dark tresses and followed him into the dimly lit foyer. 

" Ahh, your dedication is noteworthy Annette, thank you."  He walked over to a panel of switches and flicked on a series of lights, illuminating the slightly elevated lobby in a cascade of brightness.  Hundreds of aging goods lined tall, categorised mahogany shelves. Each section was chronologically labelled according to age and material make. Any given item could be named and located within minutes.  

The business structure had been subject to immense change since Andres Torres took over the position of the former curator. He and Annette had worked diligently side-by-side, for the past three weeks, re-building an entire collection of exclusive antiques.  There had been little time for sociable chatter, yet as their list of chores grew smaller, the occasional 'how was your weekend' often played itself out further to a certain point where the two could now classify themselves as colleagues bound my the civility of professionalism. 

" I have a few phone calls to make before we start for the morning, I'll be in my office if you require my assistance." He smiled politely and exited down a narrow hallway to the left. She heard the door gently close and sighed audibly.

Her knowledge of this man was somewhat limited. Although she openly discussed her marriage and lifestyle choices, he gave limited information away in reference to himself. All she knew was that he was married, presumably happily, to Sara, a thirty-seven year old whose profession involved quite a lot of secrecy.  They lived on the other side of town, in a large dwelling on secluded acreage, where their neighbours were out of sight.  On the odd occasion that he did divulge something remotely personal, his comments were of good intention and becoming to his partner. Their seemingly flawless relationship stirred a significant amount of untamed envy.   Word-of-mouth proposed that Sara was remarkably beautiful, the perfect counterpart, with an eerily humble presence.  Annette had not met her in person, or seen such a distinguished face, but already her nerves were buzzing.  The slightest mention of Sara Torres was enough to tarnish any good day.

Annette followed her manager's path and turned right into her opposing office in the hallway. Through the closed polish door she could hear a rumbled baritone making inquires, it made the tiny hairs over her body stand to attention.  Soon after she had settled in to her own office, his door opened once again, she looked up from a pile of papers to see him standing in her doorway.

"I hope I'm not interrupting…" He waited for her to shake her head before entering her small, tidy workroom. " That was cargo, the delivery will be considerably late, two days at the earliest." He stood, with poise, before her desk.

Annette rolled her dark eyes and shifted in her chair. Sometimes she felt as though his gaze was penetrating right through her.  " I suppose I'm not surprised.  We'll have the insurance to re-write now." She groaned in frustration. " After I spent all this time preparing, I should call them and give them a piece of my mind."

"Yes, they have rather inconvenienced us, but I doubt your call would alter the situation. I will fill out any outstanding papers this evening." He held their gaze a moment longer before angling his back to exit. He did not turn to her as she spoke.

"Would you be interested in diner at my house? Over a pile of monotonous insurance paperwork?" Her heartbeat elevated, adrenaline showered her veins.

A brief pause before he replied. " Actually, my wife is cooking tonight" Her tuned at the doorway, quick enough to register her cheeks fall in disappointment.  His mental notebook flipped over page by page with recorded observation. "Though we do need to finish this, perhaps you and Marco could join us for dinner."

Initially, she was bitter, Sara has taken precedent and in all selfishness that bothered her. She accepted without much thought, but later considered the privilege he had granted her by inviting them to his home. The color returned to her cheeks.

Hannibal Lecter left her office and headed for the library. His decisions never went by without significant forethought; the idea of inviting the Reiriz's to dinner amused him, as he thought of his wife's reaction. It had been quite sometime since they'd had company in their dining room, four years to be precise, and that had been quite an event. Although his intentions were different and work related to some extent, he looked forward to the doubt that would cast in his lovers azure gaze as he told her of his evening plans.  

He grinned to himself, she'd be either enraged or curious, and trying to hide her reaction from him as their guests trampled on what usually remained virgin territory.  This would be an interesting little experiment indeed. Hannibal Lecter did enjoy his play, especially in the company of his most exquisite playmate.

A/N: Thanks goes out to my girl Steel, who helped me out with my crewsants…or was that crassants? (Umm croissants) dilemma.  After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day…


	3. III

III

European cities have the best cafés. If Clarice Starling has learnt anything from her time with Hannibal Lecter, man of fine cuisine and culinary proficiency, it is that _nothing_ in the world compares to the food here. Long swept under the rug are her days of _Steakhouse_ and _Starbucks_. In Spain she ate real food, drank real coffee and dined like a real woman.

Today, she sat on the extended sidewalk of the _Del Jardín Piazza_. It would be unlikely that anyone from Clarice Starling's former life would recognise the petite woman, now known as Sara Torres. Her newly styled, died honey-golden hair whipped in the passing mid-day breeze; elegant _Gucci_ shades disguised her untouched deep blue eyes. She would have happily agreed to wear color contacts, but Hannibal strongly pitted against it. Her eyes often said more to him than her mouth, and he was not fond of silencing her soul. Collagen played no part in her appearance either; a woman can change without help from the greatest hand of technology. Much of her transformation radiated outward from the change that took place within her. 

Unbeknownst to most, Mrs Torres was actually on duty.  Back in Madrid, their first spot of residency in Spain, she had accepted a job offer from a friend to work as a part time Private Investigator, in conjunction with the Spanish Authorities. To begin with, accepting such an offer seemed ludicrous and simply foolish- the wife of a cannibalistic serial killer on the force. But after several discussions, they decided that such a position was likely to work in their favor. She keeps close tabs on the American FBI's business with their affairs and is therefore better informed in relation to their safety. It was a classic case of keeping your foes close by and sleeping with the enemy. 

_This is the life_ she thought, as she sat back in the bamboo chair observing the happenings at the small market place across from the café.  Two years ago, anything remotely stakeout related meant her mustang, cramps, late hours and a flask of weak, watery coffee supplied by some obese chief in charge.  She had advanced in life; this job far exceeded her _Special Agent_ title. Of course, she had taken 6 months to re-train, but nothing too strenuous or out of her league. She was still Clarice Starling; she was still a capable ex-government agent. 

Life, for the while, was happy again. She crosses her pinstriped pant legs and shifted her gaze slightly to the right. She watches a small, Lebanese woman fiddle with several bunches of carnations and smile at the locals passing her by. _Serial murderer posing as Florist. Possible. No one suspects the flower lady. Flowers make people happy. Happy people establish trust more easily. _Her mind clicks over as she watches Nara Landolli, secondary suspect in Clarice's latest assigned case.

Six women so far have been killed with another hospitalised and near death. They are calling this one _The Picasso_. All victims were found in their homes, grotesquely distorted with assortments of their body parts detected on makeshift canvases, painted into pictures. Clarice took a moment to deeply inhale. She'd seen a lot in her time, and this case was no different from the others. She just needed to take moments here and there to clear her head of the pictures her mind had subconsciously stored of the bodies: ripped, cut, slashed, stuffed.

Nara seems unnaturally cheery; like the perky sales assistant who wishes you a 'good day', but honestly wouldn't care if you were mugged in the mall parking lot. Clarice shifts in her seat, and listens to the old man busker playing his viola. _Is that illegal?_ She thinks, but doesn't really concern herself with matters other than what's related to her case.

 "Otro café, Señorita?" The young waiter appears at her table with a warm smile. 

She doesn't like to be disturbed mid-thought. In fact, she barely registers his presence until he taped her lightly on the shoulder, looking over her head in the direction of her immovable gaze.

She turned suddenly. " Oh. Ah. El perdón?" She stumbles with her Spanish for a moment, but regains herself shortly. _He is asking you if you want another drink fool!_

He repeats himself and she replies fluently. "No. gracias. Yo'll es la partida en breve"

The man nods, still smiling, and moved to the next table. She watches him walk away, and then turned back to the street. Nara is still there. Talking.

She sighs. _When is this woman going to move?_ _Don't you eat? It's lunchtime. Spaniards don't work over lunch!_ Her fuse was slowly losing its length, and her patience was running dry. She needed her to move to another location. She needed more interaction, but above all she needed more notes to take back.

Alex Tuhmar, her assigned field partner, sent her out on a mission, and be damned if she'd return empty-handed. So far, _The Picasso_ case was a dead-end. They had three secondary suspects, no witnesses, six bodies and one woman incapable of telling her horrific story.  Evidence was greatly lacking and that was frustrating. She almost wanted to approach Nara and demand she attempt to disembowel her in the _Piazza Square_. 

Her cell phone was ringing. She checked the caller. _Tuhmar_.

"One of these days, I will get through twelve hours without you checking up on me," She directs her earnest, perfectly mastered, British accent, onto the street and into the receiver, away from other diners. 

"One of these days I'll receive a nice, civil greeting" A deep voice answered in the same tone but with a strong Spanish accent.

"You'd think you had the wrong number. Now stop being a smart arse, Tuhmar" _ASS! ASS. I WANT TO SAY ASS!_ She inwardly grins.

"Women! Always breaking my heart. So what's happening Sara?" He had an uncanny ability to turn a soon-to-be quarrel or some form of useless banter into a serious conversation.

"Your wife wouldn't be pleased about that!" She paused to listen to his chuckle. "I'm still watching. She hasn't moved much. I'm getting bored, and thinking thoughts of enforcing a homicide." Her eyes remain on the florist. 

"Desperate for evidence Sherlock? See! I knew I should have come along." He prods on; she can almost see his toothy grin on the other end of the line. "So there's nothing new I should know about?"

"No. Nothing new. But you'll be the first I call if flower lady lashes out with those hedge trimmers."

"Nice. Real nice. Well…until then."

"Goodbye Alex!" She sternly replies to the dial tone. _He'll get his one-day!_

She hits the end button on her phone and checks to ensure she hadn't drawn any unwanted attention to herself. _Check_. Her eyes then move back to where Nara should have been. _She's moved. Ah there, heading south. Hit it Starling!_

Clarice swiftly rose from her seat, leaving behind sufficient cash on the table to cover her expenses and a generous tip. She passed the waiter at the door and gave him a quick smile, but said nothing in her haste. 

On the square, she follows the tacks she saw the twenty-something woman take. Most of the people were seated for lunch, so she moved fairly freely on the specious brick ground. On the southern most corner, she saw a head of dark curly hair take a right. She fasted her pace inconspicuously. If Nara turned, she had to look ordinary, at a decent and comfortable distance.

Clarice watched as the party in question strode into a local side gallery. Inside she saw her approach a young man. They both smiled and endured a short embrace. _Lovers? Family?_ _Great! More idle chitchat. _Through the painted glass she watched the two enjoy the others company. 

Her cell rang again. _I'll kill him if he doesn't stop…_

The screen flashed _H. _Her heart skipped a beat.

"Andres." A moment of silence as he listened to her catch her breath.

"Have I caught you at an awkward moment, my dear?" His voice set her spinal cord to tingling.

"No. Well yes… But I can manage. Is there something wrong? You don't usually call at this time." Momentarily she looked away from the gallery.

"Concern? For me? Charming Sara." They never used their real names over the phone, or anywhere in public.

She huffed softly, offended by his comment. "Lack of segue. Did you call for a reason? I _am_ on duty you know." Somehow, she couldn't quite manage to be angered.

"Yes. I'm sorry for the interruption. Though, I feel compelled to remind that is was _you_ keeping _me_ from work this morning."

She smiled and flushed at the thought of the morning's activities. She felt faint.

"Still there, my dear? Are you quite alright?" She sensed his amusement.

"I think you know, _Andres_." She desperately wanted to say his name, but bit down on her lip in frustration.

"Mmm. Quite right. I do apologise for my former lack of segue, though. You'd be pleased to hear that I indeed called for a purpose at this unexpected hour." He paused. Over the static crackle, he thought he could faintly hear a viola playing in the distance. "I've invited some guests for dinner this evening. I thought I'd check with the cook before I confirmed." There it was. The bait. Would she take a bite?

_Shoot! Dinner? Tonight. Me. Cooking. Chriiiistt!_

"Ahhmm. Oh Guests?" She was struggling to remember what he'd said. She'd forgotten completely that tonight was her cook-up speciality. 

He seemed surprised. "Yes, a work colleague and her husband."

"Right. Well. Umm. Ok then." Her mind was too baffled to fully grasp the concept of 'having guests for dinner'.

There was a long silence before he spoke. "Annette and myself have some work to catch up on. I was hoping you could keep her husband, Marco, company for a short while." More bait. Nothing so far. He began to wonder if she was in ill health.

Clarice raised an eyebrow. "You had better not be talking lap dances Dr. Torres" She then grinned. She could get used to these little midday calls.

"No. He's not so lucky! Just trivial chatter whilst we finish some paperwork" He too was smiling at her comment. It evoked some tasty pictures from his memory palace.

"Alright. Well, I'm in a rush. I'll talk with you this afternoon." She turned back to the gallery.

"Good day, my dear" Another dial tone.

She threw her phone into her bag and walked closer to the window. Nara was gone. The backdoor at the rear end of the show room was flung open.

_Damnit! _She cursed herself as she took her phone out for the third time in a space of ten minutes. Tuhmar was gonna crack it.

Runaways and surprise chef all within a matter of minutes. Damn him for being so distracting. And guests? What the hell is with that?

She had a feeling that this day was going to get worse before it got better.

A/N: For L, who I **really **didn't want to evict. Thanks for your support.


	4. IV

IV
    
    Tuhmar, as expected, was less than impressed when Clarice told him how and why she'd lost Landolli at the Gallery. She was fresh meat on this team, and although she was more experienced, she had to fall into rank order. 
    
    _"You learn to keep home at home, Sara."_

_"I know it."_

And that's all that was said. It seemed strange to work for someone so blasé. She'd made a mistake, but this time it wouldn't be recorded or stored as a threat. She didn't have to cover her own ass in her office or worry about the strength of the foundation supporting her. The image she worked for now was a real one with exposed humanly flaws. No one here wanted to be _Superman_. 

The moments of complete trust and admiration she shared with Tuhmar always reminded her of the deceased Jack Crawford. A butterfly can grow in beauty for its lifetime, but no one forgets the unsightly caterpillar it once was. Clarice Starling could not forget her past, nor did she want to. The Bureau, Crawford and her few friends were distant memories at rest in her past. Regret played no part in the life of Sara Torres.

Her workstation was much larger than any other forerunning hunks of wood. The office was considerably roomy for its minimally numbered employees.  Hers and Tuhmar's desks faced opposing disarrayed walls in the far left-hand corner of the room. Their section was notably untidy in comparison to other partnering stations. They both claimed that neatness meant time, and time was better spent on the job; sometimes she couldn't find her keyboard, other times he'd move his files.  

When she'd returned to the office, after three hours of sweeping the main streets of Càceres and a short discussion with Tuhmar, Clarice flopped down in her desk and sighed. Mistakes didn't help along dead-end cases and she couldn't help the disappointment that was slowly eating away at her professionalism.

"That face is making _me_ feel depressed" Tuhmar strode into their shared workspace and dragged his chair over to beside Clarice's. The glaze over her eyes faded as he spoke, she didn't want him to see her unhappy with herself.

"Yeah. What'd you find with the record checks?" She straightened in her chair and switched on her computer monitor. She watched her partner swing back in his chair and reach for a beige folder.

"Nara Landolli. Arrested twice for possessing. Charged with theft, trafficking and abandonment, other than that, she's clean."

"Abandonment? She has a child?" Clarice asked.

"_Had_ a child. Sophine Landolli-Mattinez passed two years ago in Foster care. Nara doesn't know." His dark eyes filled with sympathy. It comforted her to know he cared as much as she did.

Clarice sighed again. " So where are we now? Nara worked as the latest vic's supplier and perhaps with the other woman too. All of the victims are wealthy, or married to wealth, and highly regarded socialites. Their bodies were distorted almost beyond recognition and several organs, blood and soft tissue was painted onto large canvases erected in the victims bedrooms. The husbands were all conveniently at work, Spaniards leave their freakin' doors open through the day, and we have no prints. Have I missed anything?" Her mind was rolling over collecting the nothingness she knew would take them nowhere. 

"No. That's our case." There was no sarcasm or mock in his tone.  "I think the arrangement of the bodies is our best bet." He paused to pull some photographs out of his draw. " Take the latest vic, Gabriella Scleràte, as an example. Her husband found parts of his wife's body at 5pm, approximately 3 hours after the estimated time of death. Firstly the bloody skeleton, arranged on the bed, then the skin, bits of muscle and organs and blood, which were painted onto a 60x60 inch material canvas. Obviously the killer is conveying a message." Alex turned and looked at the framed picture on his desk. Mrs Tuhmar was always a source of his inspiration.

"The canvas was facing the basin mirror, right?" Clarice added.

"Right. The same pattern found at each scene. Looks to me like a sour vengeance directed at rich and beautiful women." He picked up a pencil from its holder and tapped it on his desk.

Clarice's eyes narrowed. " The mirror indicates a reflection of what we are physically. You think _Picasso_ is a female?" 

Tuhmar shrugged. "I think I need to sleep on it."

"Alright. Tomorrow you're going back to the crime scene at the Scleràte's home. I think I'll look into this past relationship of Nara's. What was the kid's name?"

 "Landolli-Mattinez, daughter of Ven Mattinez. I've got his contacts already." He smiled and pulled a card from his pocket.

"Too good for me Alex." She took the card and swung around to face her computer screen with an exhausted sigh.

"You're not calling quits for today?" Tuhmar skidded across the room on the wheels of his chair, dropping the folder back onto his crowded desk.  

"I will…soon." He turned over his shoulder to see a bright homepage flashing on her screen _"Classic Recipes"._   

"If this work is making you hungry, you're more disturbed than I thought." He smirked, brushing his long hair out of his face. Clarice snorted and shook her head in amusement. 

"Last minute cooking advice actually. We're having guests over a bit later." She didn't look to him when she replied.

"_You_ can cook? Hmm. And why wasn't I invited to this little get-together?" He teased her and she loved it. It kept the morbid earnest at bay for most of the time. They needed to poke fun at each other, if they didn't, they'd probably shed too many tears.

"No I can't cook, and if you're not looking for a major blow to your health, considerer _not_ being on the invite list as lucky." She laughed into the monitor.

"How long have you got?" He stood and peered over her head.

"I don't know." She shrugged. " I guess they'll be over around ten."

"Andres can't make a start on it? Or perhaps _finish_ it too?" Tuhmar chuckled, playfully poking her arm.

Rolling her eyes she replied. " He cooks every other night. I set days when I like to cook for him, tonight was one of those. I guess I just got a little distracted and forgot." 

"What with the dead bodies and all?" Another grin. For a man that spoke English as his second language, the sarcasm was notably praiseworthy.  "If you had mentioned this earlier I could have had Tia bring some cook books over." Clarice smiled when he mentioned his wife. She had met Tia and spoken with her on several occasions. Sometimes, she was a corporeal reminder of Ardelia; loving and family orientated.

"Thank you for reminding me that I am the world's greatest procrastinator." She turned to find her partner bent over his chair, searching under his desk. She chuckled. "You'd be lucky to find your legs under there." Her eyes wandered over the stacks of boxes and papers. 

"I know they're somewhere around here…" The lid of a storage box was hurled across the floor. "Ahh here we are." Tuhmar rose, his cheeks pink with effort, and sat back in his chair with a victorious grin. He handed her two issues of _Woman's Day_. Clarice's eyes lit up in humour. Ardelia used to keep a stack of trashy magazines on their coffee table for 'trivial guest entertainment'.

"Mind explaining why you're in possession of women's tabloid magazines?" She playfully yanked the glossy pages out of his hand and flipped through them.

"I too have cooking emergencies on occasion. You know there's a whole section dedicated to recipes?" He seemed excited with the knowledge. 

"Amazing, isn't it?" Clarice chortled and looked up to his sad eyes.

"What? Not even a thank you?" She hated when he purposely shifted the mood.

"Sorry. Thank you Alex. You're a wondrous help to the female populace." She engaged in his sincerity. 

 He nodded and started to pack up for the day. A few folders were thrown into his brief case along with his cell phone and beeper. His gun remained holstered at his waist, as did hers until they reached the complete safety of their homes.

"See you tomorrow partner." The end of days always revitalized energy in people. Even on the worst shifts, the last hour brought relief and happiness. Everyone wants someone, or something to go home to. A quick "Good luck!" was hollered over his shoulder before he disappeared into the sundown.

Clarice exhausted an additional hour ransacking various Spanish cooking sites before surrendering to consult with Tuhmar's gastronomic aids. Keeping in mind the ever-passing hour, she decided it would be best to try a seafood dish, as the Fish Markets were open until midnight. Her search was futile up to page 289, where she spotted a moderately undemanding Snapper cook-up: Catalan Bouillabaisse. In an instant she made a hasty decision and fetched her handbag, double-checking to ensure the contact address of Ven Mattinez was securely at rest in her trouser pocket. 

Stepping out into the mild evening, Clarice buttoned up her light jacket and dashed for the markets, a cut out of the _Woman's Day_ recipe clenched in her left hand.

_Some things are incapable of change._

She had never been a cook, any person who ever had the opportunity to sit at her table would agree. Hannibal Lecter had shown her there was more to cuisine than frozen dinners and two-minute noodles, and since then she relished dinning in class. After two years of watching her husband and the hired help prepare their meals, Clarice, stubborn and persistent, insisted that she partake in this duty at least once a month.  Dr. Lecter tried to convince her that cooking was no _duty_, and that she need not feel obligated, but his efforts concluded with no avail.   Previous nights had run smoothly, Clarice chose dishes she was capable of working at alone, without the help of her concerned and lurking husband. Usually she enjoyed that which, more often that not, became her _creative_ event, but in recent weeks there had been distractions, namely six dead women.  She could have rung him back and cancelled, but visitors? No. Now she had to prove herself, though she knew he'd dislike hearing such a confession. Yet, it was the truth. For a woman with roots in a neighbourhood of rednecks, independence and class was something she felt compelled to demonstrate every so often. No one had to know that a tasteless tabloid was lending her a hand on this particular evening. 

The main street was markedly quiet. Sprinkles of tourists made their way through the centre of the town, wondering why the locals weren't dining. Restaurants made their roaring local trade at lunch and Spaniards rarely eat out for dinner, excluding special occasions and the invited friends of Andres Torres. He liked to entertain, but there had been a lengthy break between the present and their last _special_ feast. It was an unnerving task, not only to serve Hannibal Lecter's discriminating palate, but also his equally critical friends.

She took another glance at the torn recipe when the reached the gates to the Markets. The air carried a distinctly fishy smell, it reminded her of Evelda…

_Keep walking. That's the past._

Such memory triggers always sent a jolt of anxiety directly through her heart. The struggle was not leaving behind her life, it was purposely forgetting the lives that she took. It felt inhumane and disrespectful; she wanted to be neither of those. And of course, when she thought of the raid and the bloodshed, she thought of Johnny Brigham.

_How about it Starling? Ever thought about you and me?  _

She wouldn't deny that she missed him. He had been one of her true friends and forgetting that would be a great disloyalty. Yet, to place these memories so close to the present was dangerous. She harbored no intentions of leaving this life, and she knew that if she kept going down that path, one day soon, she would meet the end; her breakpoint.

Sighing deeply and audibly, Sara Torres weaved her way through the narrow lines of stalls, trying to focus her eyes on the surroundings instead of her weighty thoughts. She stopped in front of the strongly scented seafood stall _Pesque la Tienda_, and purchased a whole fresh red snapper. The owner looked at her quizzically as she threw the money at him, politely apologising for her haste. 

Two blocks down she stepped into an up-market convenience store where she found the rest of the ingredients: onions, sweet butter, parsley, bay leaf, thyme, blanched almonds and garlic cloves. She knew Hannibal would have purchased the wine in advance, as well as whatever else he thought she might require.

It was dark before she entered the welcome warmth of their home.  For the excessive space they inhabited, the house was pleasantly comforting and lively. Clarice strode through the renaissance decorated lobby through to the ground floor entertainment area, dropping her workbag on a large desk. She never left her revolver at the door. The down stairs kitchen had been cleared with her knife collection mounted on the countertop. She placed the brown paper bags next to a holder of fillet knives. Suddenly she was swept away with images of Gabriella Scleràte's torn and bloody body. Her mind hi-jacked her breath and she stood for a moment, light-headed from lack of oxygen. Pictures of the six women replayed in her head like a projection movie.  Her stomach turned with nausea and restlessness.

She was too caught up in her thoughts to feel his presence closing in behind her. A strong pair of hands circled her small waist and fell back when she expressed her repulsive shock.  For a brief second, she knew he though the worst. As she turned to face him, tendrils of her hair caressed his face; he deeply inhaled its familiar scent to calm his throbbing chest.

"You startled me." She was smiling. He had never been so happy to admit poor judgement. His hands moved back to their previous placing, he watched the shade of her eyes grow darker with excitement and passion. Oh yes, he was so very glad to be wrong.

"My apologies, Clarice." Her tense muscles began to loosen with his light caresses. " It seems as though I caught you mid-thought." His subtleness surprised her. She nodded, moving closer to step into the curves of his body.

" _The_ _Picasso_ case is giving me hell." Her own hands ran up the sides of his strong thighs to playfully rest on his backside. An approving growl helped to ease her thoughts into the back of her mind. A wicked grin visualised her further intentions of delaying logical thought. Just as his mouth closed over hers, laughter sounded from the second floor terrace.  She pulled away from their grazing lips to look into his eyes. 

" I was coming to tell you…"More laughter and his wife's quizzical expression drew him into a brief pause. "…Our guest arrived ahead of schedule." He felt her hands drop from around him, a look or horror crossing her normally exquisite face.

"You _have_ to be kidding" She lent her arms back and rested her weight on the counter.

"I'm afraid not, my dear." He bent forward baring his teeth and nipping at her ear. "You'll have to hold those thoughts for a few more hours." He withdrew then, leaving a cool empty space where his body had roughly pushed against hers.

She watched him ascend the stairs and waited for his silhouette to disappear before she held her head in her hands. Her temples were pounding. She didn't need to add stress to her already hectic plate. The grade exams in college were easier than this. At that moment, she wished she were as dead as the snapper in the paper bag.

_A/N: I tried this recipe myself the other night; Catalan Bouillabaisse. Let's just say, if Clarice has even less patience than me...this next chapter is going to get **very** messy! Send on your reviews, I'd love to hear what you think._


	5. V

V

Hannibal Lecter's well-appointed kitchen was in a state of absolute chaos.  Clarice stood beside one of the three stainless steel sinks washing flour off of her face and out of her hair. She was having difficulties recalling how exactly the flour go to be where it currently was. Perhaps it lodged itself in the midst of one of her small tantrums. The snapper itself had been easy, she'd sliced it into two strips and put the bones and trimmings into a pot of boiling salty water and fish stock. The sauce of butter oil, onions, tomatoes, bay leaf and thyme had also been a success; in fact, she hadn't stuck a problem until creativity reared its unpredictable head. Upon opening the fridge she had discovered a bowl of fresh scallops. She'd watched Ardelia make battered scallops into an appetiser once and the temptation was too great.  She had become overwhelmed with inspiration to repeat the procedure. 

Unfortunately, _Woman's Day _couldn't help her out with the batter making, and sure as the sun rises, Hannibal would _not_ have a spare copy lying around for idle entertainment. The problem wasn't so much the ingredients, she had decided, it was the prepping and beating and stirring. How the hell thick was it supposed to be anyway? One minute it's too watery, the next there's floury lumps everywhere. One minute the mixture is in the bowl, the next it isn't.  Luckily the walls of the kitchen near the stove and sink were tiled, the mess was easily wiped, the teak shelves however, remained covered in half an inch of white powder. 

Vivacious chatter from above brought her back to the present. One and a half hours later and he still hadn't been down to check on her. Must have been a record for him, she thought. She pictured him sitting on the terrace, smiling and nodding and making the occasional appropriate comment, all the while madly wondering about the state of his beloved wife and kitchen. She hadn't made any excessive noise that might draw concerned attention to her activities. But he knew her, and she knew him.

Looking over to the pot of boiling fish carcass, Clarice was reminded of _The Picasso_. She could hardly stomach gutting a fish, what would it take to skin a human? What point was desperately trying to free itself for speculation? The most common motive in felons attacking socially elite circles was jealousy, envy and vengeance. 

_What were you thinking when you painted with their organs? Do you consider that art?_

A sticky thump forced her thoughts aside for the moment. She laughed when she saw one of the snapper fillets plastered onto the marble tiles. She used an egg flip to pick it up. It's odd how the simple things can divert the most complex of thoughts. For the while, she was back on task, small profanities sounding as she finally gave in to the thick yellowish concoction.  She threw the raw-battered scallops into the frying pan rather hastily causing hot oil to spit back at her bare hands and neckline.

"Damnit!" She fought to conceal her frustration from growing into a full-fledged scream. 

All was quiet above her until she heard the scraping of chairs across their terracotta terrace. In a tense rush, she attempted to clean up her mess. The last thing she needed was orders from her husband.

*~*~*

Andres' home was impeccable. Everything had its place, and that place always looked elegant. Compared to her own grand home, this was something else. Upon arriving, her first thoughts were that of pride. The exterior her home was of similar magnitude and upkeep, yet inside, the walls here had memories and the atmosphere was lively.  No match for the dead echo of a life that her and Marco shared. 

In preparation for her evening out, Annette had spent three hours dressing and primping. She had elected a royal blue silk outfit, accessorising with an excess of rose-gold. In her mind, she was focusing on a competition. She knew that Andres' wife was much younger, and probably prettier and firmer than she, so she decided she would outdo the woman with style and elegance, something her mother had taught her very well. It was important to Annette that she was the focal point in a room, and on this particular night, Mrs. Torres would not overshadow her.

A younger woman greeted them on arrival, the hired help presumably. A local girl, her hair and skin was dark, and her eyes were a incredible shade of green, even in her humdrum uniform she looked quite the beauty. Was Mrs Torres even more stunning? Annette denied that she was obsessing over it, yet she kept thinking about her, about this woman that Andres was so clearly in love with.

Her breath had caught in her throat when she first laid eyes on him. He sat, relaxed yet remarkably composed with a bottle of vintage _Château d'Yquem_ resting on the brass setting beside him. When he looked at her, she knew he appreciated the effort she had gone to. He looked at her like Marco _used_ to, intensely and favourably.

He'd gone well out of his way to settle them. The terrace had a beautiful view of the lit city below, he'd arranged their chairs next to his, facing the pleasantly dark evening. The pleasantries were exchanged, and she commented on his flawless attire. It did not bother that he failed to mention hers.  Andres and Marco got on well, much to Annette's surprise. Perhaps she had wished for a little jealousy on behalf of them both, though she was trying not to be overly fussy. Demands weren't popular with the male populace. 

The absence of Mrs Torres had gone unnoticed up until he mentioned that she would be accompanying them shortly. Annette's obsession with the woman seemingly dwindled in the presence of Andres. He had that effect on her, his eyes took her places she'd never been and evoked emotions she thought belonged exclusively to youth.

_Sara. _

His eyes changed when he said _her_ name though. She saw something dark and forbidden, as if the mere mention of her name set up a fortress of passion around his heart. It was possession in its truest form, impenetrable and undeniable. 

He filled the air with light chatter, deterring suspicion of his wandering thoughts, but Annette noticed, she always did. She wanted to hold his attention like Sara did. She interrupted her husband and her co-worker, their laughter begin to die as she spoke.

"Excuse me Andres, would you show me to the restroom?"

"Most certainly."  He said, rising steadily to direct her inside. 

They walked in silence through the broad hallways, weaving through the marvellous second story of his home. She wanted to use this time wisely.

"Please don't feel compelled to entertain Marco, he knows we're here to discuss work-related matters" Her voice was feeble in the midst of such opulence. 

"It's a pleasure to have the company. I do not feel compelled, I assure you." He offered a brief smile and nodded to the last door at the end of the hallway. "You'll find all you need in there." She nodded as he continued. "I'm going to check on the cook, I trust you can find your way back to the terrace." He turned and left her watching his retreat. Even in the semi-dark, his figure was admirable.

"Yes." She whispered, doubting her heard her.

She watched the last of his shadow disappear down the stairs before turning to the end of the hall. The last door, as he had indicated, led to one of the bathrooms. Glossy peach tiles lined the floor, symmetrical in shape and pattern.  Inside, to the left, was an elevated spa-bath, constructed with crème marble and framed with antique-washed copper. Parallel to one luxury stood another: the four-basin wash bench supporting a mirror engraved with intricate ivy vines at the outermost edges. 

A few minutes of amateur detective work told Annette that this bathroom was specifically designed for guests. The bench drawers where mostly empty, a few bars of sweetly scented soap at the top, progressing to body lotions and other hygiene items in the lower drawers. There was nothing personal, no cologne or perfume or contraceptives. Annette wondered if they had ever used this bathroom.

_Have they made love in that tub?_

One look into the mirror before her confirmed the absolute envy in her eyes. She shook her head, running her hands through her hair. She held a fingertip to her eyelid to even out the dark eyeliner. She unzipped her evening bag, royal blue to match her outfit, and pulled out a small jar of cover-up. She made an additional effort and applied a shade of deep crimson lipstick before making an exit.

There were five other doors in that particular hallway; she went to each, ready to nose about in their affairs. She wanted to know more, she _needed _to see more of their life. She found every single door, other than the one she had come from, locked. It stuck her as peculiar, though the frustration at being kept in the dark was overpowering. So they had secrets did they? She wanted to know them all. 

It was tempting to venture upstairs but the noise below her startled her into retreat. Andres was laughing. She heard a woman's voice too.

Sara.

 Annette quietly slipped down the stairs, keeping her figure and shadow in the dark, until she reached a favourable position opposing the kitchen. The vision she came to upset the rhythm of her heart. 

*~*~*

"I could eat you right now." He growled when he saw his flour-coated wife nursing her wounds in front of their stove. 

Clarice spun to meet her husband's mischievous gaze.  He stood several feet behind her, resting his right side on the counter. He wanted to play. There was nothing she could do to stop herself from smiling.

" I'm holding those thoughts, remember?" She grinned, tempted to poke her tongue out at him. "Besides, can't you see that I'm _extremely_ busy?" 

" I can see that you've made an _extremely_ large mess of my kitchen." His tone was neutral; sometimes she wondered how far removed wit was from earnest comments.  

She narrowed her eyes, unamused by his comment.

 "I don't want your help Hannibal, and I certainly don't _need_ your ridicule." She turned back to the stove, dishing out the fried scallops into a large serving dish. 

"Perhaps my intentions weren't clear enough, _Sara_" Evidently they were back to using their aliases for the night. He moved over to stand behind her, pressing his warm body into her own much smaller one. She felt his excitement nudge the small of her back.

_Well hello there! Someone's happy to see me_

She fell back onto him and groaned as his hands tugged the blouse out of her pants and tracked their way up her toned, smooth flesh. The batter was forgotten when he leant down and took her earlobe in his mouth. His warm tongue traced the framework of her ear, both hands now inside of her shirt.

"I really need to finish this…" She protested, almost without breath.

"Oh, I agree." His chest rumbled with laughter.

"Cooking! I meant I have to…"He halted further complaint as he lightly kicked in her knees, held her in his arms and swung her up onto the bench beside the stove. His excited eyes met hers and she knew she was powerless to stop him.

Behind his radiantly glowing wife, Hannibal Lecter discreetly summed up her progress. He smirked inwardly. He'd have to get her out of the kitchen if they planned on feeding their guests.

One of her small hands escaped his grasp and travelled down his chest to lightly brush the front of his trousers. He crushed himself against her chest as she pulled him closer between outstretched legs. It was hard to know who initiated the kiss; their mouths were attacking each other in desperation, like lovers who had reunited after years of being apart. Caught up in his desire, Dr. Lecter braced both arms against the bench, knocking down a full packet of flour. It hit the marble with such force, that the packet combusted, shooting a cloud of white powered up into the kitchen.

"Who's makin' the mess now?" She grinned into his mouth, watching as he peered to the side, careful not to move his mouth away from hers.

Either he hadn't heard her, or he was doing a very good job at ignoring the extend of his own blunder. He pulled at the zipper on her pants, bringing his eyes back to hers. Desire had ambushed his thoughts; he hadn't felt her body tense, but he could see the sudden alarm in her beautiful eyes. 

"What is it, my dear?" He made no attempt to turn, or remove his hands from within her pants.

"We had an audience." She swallowed, immensely annoyed at the intrusion.

She saw a spark of anger ignite in his eyes before he rotated his body away from hers. Both of them caught a glimpse of a royal blue evening gown swishing against the balustrade supporting the flight of stairs. 


End file.
